


The cigarettes, and the morning light

by theseatheseatheopensea



Category: Hangover Square - Patrick Hamilton
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alcohol Withdrawal, Cats, Fix-It, Gen, Healing, Historium Bingo, Mental Health Issues, Recovery, Self-Discovery, Starting Over, happiness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-14
Updated: 2020-03-14
Packaged: 2021-02-28 22:02:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,191
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23144362
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theseatheseatheopensea/pseuds/theseatheseatheopensea
Summary: He felt that the world was still hard and complicated, but the world was letting him breathe, for a change. The world felt warmer and kinder. And he thought about the small wonder of it all. And the sun shone in, and he looked at the world out there, and there was a quiet hope in his eyes. The world was not perfect, but it was all right, and it felt safe, and he would be happy here. Yes, it was a start.
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6
Collections: Be The First! 2020





	The cigarettes, and the morning light

**Author's Note:**

> There are few books I've read that need a fix-it as badly as "Hangover Square", so that's what I've tried to do here, using some bits and pieces taken from the original text to write a happier (but hopefully realistic) ending.
> 
> This story was written for the [Be the first](https://bethefirst.dreamwidth.org/) challenge, and for the "happy" square of my [Historium](https://historium.dreamwidth.org/) [bingo](https://historium.dreamwidth.org/28158.html) card.

_I wanted more, but live with less_  
_Live again_  
_Happiness_

_Now that I found peace at last_  
_Tell me, Jesus, will it last?_  
_Now that I found peace at last_  
_Tell me, Jesus, will it last?_

The Blue Nile: [Happiness](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xI42cbBHmW4).

*

This was his last night.

His head cracked. And the world cracked. And this was his last night.

He had been in the world under the sea. He had been in a dream for days now. He didn't want to wake up. But he had to.

He had to. And he did. And the world cracked. And with the crack, everything came flooding, rushing, roaring back, noise, colour, light, the fury of the real everyday world. And he woke up.

He woke up. And he left the key on the mantelpiece. And he went out. And he closed the door behind him.

It was all right. Netta had already forgotten about him anyway. He could hear her voice faintly over the bath water, humming a silly song. It was one he couldn't remember the name of, but it still counted as a goodbye.

It was a goodbye.

He walked down the hall. He shoved out the light on the landing. In the utter blackness, he felt his way down the stairs, slowly. He went outside, and he walked over to the pub, and he went in. He sat down, and he ordered a double whisky, and he lit a cigarette, and he started to think. He drank and thought and thought and drank and smoked. He thought about Netta. He thought about Netta and Peter. He thought about Netta and Peter and Mickey. He thought about all of them. And he thought about the whisky in front of him, and it was nice and sharp and good. And then he drank some more, and they slowly started to fade into the sharp fog of the alcohol, and he couldn't bring himself to hate them anymore.

He couldn't bring himself to care. But he needed another reason for living, and if the only reason was to avoid giving them the satisfaction, then no one could blame him. Besides, he couldn't go on like this. He had been at war with the world for too long. And he had been at war with himself. _But no more_ , he thought. One more drink, and then, no more. No more Earl's Court. No more.

He paid for his drink, and he went outside. The wind roared in his ears, like a goodbye. And everything became clear somehow. He had to go. Yes, he knew it. He had to go. And this was his last night. This was his last night at Earl's Court. Tomorrow, he would go to Maidenhead. He thought about Maidenhead. No, he didn't hold much hope for Maidenhead. But Maidenhead was elsewhere. Maidenhead was _not here_ , and that made it automatically better.

Anywhere would be better than here. Anything would be better than this.

It was settled, then. Tomorrow, he would go to Maidenhead, and he would be happy there.

The next morning, he got up early, and he went to the station, and he bought a train ticket. Then he bought a suitcase, and took it back to his hotel room, and poked some holes in it. The pussycat didn't like it, but it was better than a basket, and later, as he balanced it on his knees on the train, he could hear it purring softly. The pussycat was the one good thing about Earl's Court, and now he had it here, with him. And it was a start.

He got down at the station. Maidenhead was far from perfect. He knew it. It was just a town with shops, and newsagents, and pubs and cinemas. Yes, he knew it. But no one knew him here. There was no laughter here. And everything was clear. And everything was simple. And everything was quiet.

And he took a step forward.

He rented a small room at a boarding house. It was nothing much, but it was enough for him and the pussycat. In the mornings, he had a warm cup of tea, and he had the paper with the classified ads. It was not much, but it was something. And this something here felt frail and delicate, like glass. And he was willing to care for it.

The days went by, and his eyes were still sad, but he stayed awake, and he stayed alive. He didn't feel dream-like and dull as much as before. He thought about nice things. He thought about the river and the sun and the trees. He thought about golf and the kind, friendly bank clerk and the pussycat. He didn't think about the war. He thought only about nice and good and happy things. He allowed himself a drink or two. An occasional beer, and no more. And there were no hangovers to face in the morning. And he was back in life. Yes, he felt he could face life, enjoy it even. He was still here. Yes, he was still here.

Maybe he still was a failure. Maybe he still was a battered failure. There was no fire in him. But it was all right. Maidenhead was warmer, and it was all right. And maybe he wasn't ashamed of himself. And maybe he hated himself a little bit less. He found work. He rang up Johnnie sometimes. He had Johnnie over during the weekend, for tea or a quiet glass of beer. He slept. And his head was quiet. His head was silent. He felt better. There were things he couldn't remember, and there were things he didn't _want_ to remember. He just thought about good things. And everything was simple. And everything was quiet. And everything was silent. And everything was peaceful.

The pussycat sat by the window and licked its right paw and blinked his eyes peacefully. He sat there too, by the window, in the sun, smoking and reading a little Dickens. There was blue and sunshine everywhere. He looked up at the nice, friendly sun out there, shining brilliantly. He sat there, with the cigarettes, and the morning light, and his soul began to smile to itself. He felt that the world was still hard and complicated, but the world was letting him breathe, for a change. The world felt warmer and kinder. And he thought about the small wonder of it all. And the sun shone in, and he looked at the world out there, and there was a quiet hope in his eyes. The world was not perfect, but it was all right, and it felt safe, and he would be happy here. Yes, it was a start.

Later, he took a walk along the High Street. He went on to the river, and listened to the gentle purring of the water, shining bright like a small, gleaming sea. When he got back, the pussycat looked up at him and meowed. He sat by the window again, and he stroked its head, and it started to purr, and he felt at peace. Outside it was beginning to rain.


End file.
